Move over, Kim K.

It's my tenth post and I'm giving away prizes! Just kidding. How would I do that?

Have I convinced you to start documenting your life? Have I helped to make it easier with fun questions? I sure hope so. I'd hate to think I was wasting my time with all this blogging nonsense.

After Gail died and Know Me Journals was a reality, my sister Gwyn and I had a great plan. We would fill out a journal and answer all the questions for Gail, since leaving a record of herself was such a priority during her final days and was ultimately the inspiration behind the books. 

Then we would give it to her kids and everyone would cry (we cry A LOT) and knuckle bump, which I try to avoid in most circumstances.

Genius!

We carved out some time to sit down, a miracle considering our different schedules, then we cracked open a journal to fill it with words. Lots and lots of important and meaningful words. After all, we were both close to Gail and, of course, I wrote all the questions in the Know Me Journal. Between the two of us, it would be so simple and special and aren't we the greatest aunts ever!

(Screeching brake sound.)

It was hard. Really hard to answer for someone else. We didn't get very far.

So there you have it, on this, the occasion of my tenth post, another reason to start writing. Because no matter how well you think people know you, they really can't "speak" for you. 

Consider yourself forgiven if you haven't kept up with the challenge of this blog. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out my first post.) Or perhaps you just follow my rantings because it's better than returning work emails or folding underwear. 

But keep in mind, writing even a little bit, one story or thought every now and again, will give you a deep down feeling of validation. If you consider yourself a sucky writer, don't sweat it. Maybe just make lists, like three highlights from the last week. Even the somewhat mundane/small/boring events of today will be fun to recall tomorrow.

I've been reading Little House on the Prairie with Edy. We take turns. I read a page, she reads a page. She likes that it's Laura's voice, the middle of three daughters, and that Laura is naughty compared to uptight Mary. I like how it shows the challenges of pioneer living 130 years ago. Those kids work! And share a bed and own one dress. At Christmas, all they get is a tin cup, but boy are they thrilled! Santa really delivered! I asked Edy if she'd be happy with a tin cup. She was horrified.

More than the content, however, I love listening to Edy read. She has a speech impediment that is slight enough to be adorable without the need for intervention. And she has a distinct way of reciting sentences that end in an exclamation point. Halfway through, she realizes the need to emphasize the words and the sudden enthusiasm is so darn cute. I've tried to get it on video, but when she's being filmed, it's not the same.

So that's my small thing that I KNOW I will forget if I don't write it down. Especially because we're almost done the book and Edy just turned 7. She'll probably smooth out her delivery by next Wednesday. Time roars on.

Describe one thing about your life right now that you want to remember, but you know you'll probably forget. Maybe it concerns your kids, or yourself, or a coworker, or your pet. Something sweet and small that doesn't stand a chance in your brain full constantly evolving activity schedules and the latest details of the Kardashian divorce. 

Happy Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for my 14 followers. And so, so, much more!

Look at me getting topical.

I've led a pretty boring, unglamorous life. No complaints here, just stating a fact. I have a few good stories I save for parties, but nothing real thrilling without a drink or 6. Given recent events, I thought I'd share one here. So grab a cocktail. 


My brother was an excellent athlete and student in high school. He was heading to West Point when a last minute medical "weed out" disqualified him. A history of asthma and allergies were his downfall. With much excitement and a little relief, he headed off to Penn State.


Because MacMurrays tend to ignore the realistic (a good quality, in my opinion), my brother tried out for the football team as a walk on. And he made it! Which is a big deal. But he never got the chance to suit up and play. My mother was very angry. She didn't understand the purpose of a walk on program if you weren't going to let the players walk on. The recruited, scholarship athletes were clearly favored. So what did she do? She wrote a letter. I'm sure it was harsh.


This is where I (lazy, teenager) capture some of the glory of this story. Walking past a ringing phone (connected by a squiggly cord to the kitchen wall) I decided to answer it.


It was Joe Paterno! Calling to speak with my mother. They talked for a long time and by the end of the conversation, she was so impressed. Impressed with his explanation of the system. Impressed that he called our home. It was a love-fest from that point on.


Unless you are still without power after the freak October snow storm, it's obvious what made me recall Joe Paterno. Honestly, I feel very removed from all the drama in Happy Valley. I didn't go there. I'm not a huge fan. I don't really get the "Rah! Rah!" mentality of a giant university. I chose a small college. It's hard to pronounce let alone cheer for, everyone knew everyone's everything (the good, the bad, the highly embarrassing), and you could cross the entire campus in a matter of minutes. Quicker if it was raining or MC Hammer was playing on the mix tape in your walkman. I'm pretty confident I could have made our football team. (Sorry, Neill. I am insulting one of my few followers.) 


The whole "I bleed blue and white!" or green or purple or whatever is so silly to me. Except for my school's color is red so it literally makes sense. But I wouldn't chant it or wear it on a t-shirt.


A lot of the Penn State scandal is still unfolding. I'm hoping it unfolds in a positive way for Joe Paterno mostly because he was nice to my mom. Though if it doesn't and there was a massive cover-up of perhaps the worst of all possible crimes, then boo on him. The whole thing makes me very sad. Guilty or not, a defeated old man with saggy pants and super thick glasses is just plain depressing.


In addition to my brief exchange with Paterno, my only other celebrity run-ins include:

1. Weird Al Yankovic circa 1987 in the parking lot of the Mann Music Center after an evening of underage drinking on the "hill." At least I'm pretty sure it was him. 
2. Dinner with news anchor Charlie Gibson in 1992. One of my college professors knew him personally. It should be noted that Charlie Gibson was, at the time, on tv and somewhat relevant. 
3. A whole bunch of mooching celebrities at various Super Bowls I attended when Jon worked for the Ravens. There was a Baldwin brother in Miami, a Backstreet Boy in Atlanta, and the entire Survivor cast staying at our hotel in Tampa. Yes, we went to a lot of Super Bowls. Pre-kids, pre-recession. Excess was totally acceptable and the only person I had to feed every day was myself. Oh, 1999, how I miss your casual ease while loading chicken nuggets in the toaster oven!

Here's this week's question. Don't worry, I'm not asking for your opinion on Penn State. Have you ever had a brush with fame, met a celebrity, or been on tv?


P.S. Someone in my family is going to read this and remind me of the summer I walked George Clooney's dog. I feel most certain that I am forgetting something. It's been a long week!

Lesson learned. Again.

Exactly one year ago, I was a giant, round mess. I had awful heartburn and a pinched nerve that caused alternating bouts of numbness and shocking pain in my left arm. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. But I asked for it. Boy, did I ask for it. Fortunately, it would only last for five more days. Then Beatrice Gail was born and all was good in my world.


When people notice the age difference between Edy and Bea, they ask if she was a "surprise." I'm not sure how to answer that question honestly. Yes and no. That's the truth.


I always wanted three children. I came from four, a nice even number, but my mom started much younger. She had me, her last, at the same age I had my first. Plus I like odd things. Something about three seemed right. For me at least.


One and two came about with hardly an effort. "I'd like to have a winter baby. It will give me some time to bounce back before bathing suit season." Lu was born in January. "Let's wait until Lu turns two before trying for another." Edy was born ten months after Lu's second birthday.


So again, without questioning our inevitable success, we decided to try for #3. It was spring 2006 and Gail's disease was progressing fast. In a very sad case of history repeating itself, I thought a baby would be something positive for the family. Gail had the same thought when our mother was very sick. Before passing away, my mom knew Gail was pregnant, but she never met the twins.


I got pregnant the first month, but it was clear something was wrong. We had just moved to Philadelphia and I didn't have a relationship with a local doctor, so I drove down to Baltimore for care. I found out it was ectopic as Gail found out she had little time. Honestly, I was more devastated about the inconvenience than the lost baby. It was so surreal to sit among cancer patients and get a shot of chemotherapy (the treatment for an ectopic pregnancy) while my sister was dying of cancer in another city. I cried, a lot, as the nurse consoled me with the upbeat message that we could always try again.


For many weeks following the shot, I needed to be monitored - locally, luckily - to make sure the treatment worked. I was getting in my car after my last blood draw when I got the call that Gail had died.


In my grief, we waited a year before even thinking about #3. It wasn't such a breeze this time. Seven months later, I suffered another ectopic. Before heading into emergency surgery, my doctor sent me to the office of a fertility specialist who had sensitive ultrasound equipment. His parting words, "Come back. I will help you."


So I did. Because I wasn't getting any younger. And because I only had one tube. And because we had excellent fertility insurance, which I soon learned wasn't nearly always the case. On more than one visit to the clinic, I waited to check out behind someone putting a few thousand dollars on a credit card. All for a dream not at all guaranteed.


Several years of escalating procedures culminated in three failed IVF attempts. The frustrated doctor explained that for some women fertility slowly wanes. For others, it plummets. I guess I was the plummeting kind.


We were out of insurance money anyway and I wasn't about to compromise the future of my currently thriving and happy children to chase the elusive specter of #3. I said goodbye to the clinic and started to train for my first half marathon. Time to reclaim my body, my energy. Time to be grateful for all I have.


I didn't think I needed another lesson on how precious life is, but this was a big one. I will forever be changed after witnessing, and experiencing to some degree, the lonely and shameful heartbreak of infertility. I was already a mother. There wasn't so much on the line, but it still hurt like crazy.


And this is where I became the person someone knows who knows someone who experienced a miracle. We gave up and then we got pregnant. And the gift of Bea was not only the baby birthed, but the new perspective gained. I wouldn't want to do it again, but I'm glad it's part of my experience here on earth.


This week your question is: What major life events have you faced and what lessons did you learn?

Some serious soul cleansing, Halloween style.

When I was a very little kid, I was left of center to say the least. It got me noticed. Fourth born, third girl in a busy household. I pretended to speak different languages, I made up stories and plays, my favorite toy was a Mr. Clean bottle named Jenkintown.


I was also feisty. I had no problem standing up for myself. I defended my every action. I was never wrong. I routinely kicked my sisters in the shins with heavy orthopedic shoes. 


My mom loved this about me.


But at some point my originality lost out to the powerful need to be socially accepted beyond the family. And my spunk morphed into a raging case of insecurity.


My mom didn't love this about me.


It was fourth grade when my friend had a Grease/birthday/Halloween party. That's bound to be a good time, right?


We carefully crafted an outfit, gluing the perfect felt poodle on a beautifully sewn skirt, then pairing it with a cardigan and my father's high school ring on a chain around my neck.


When I showed up to the party I was the only "before" Sandy. Oh, the Halloween horror! Everyone else had black stretch pants, big hair, heels and leather jackets like the end-of-the-movie transformed Sandy. The "You're the One That I Want" Sandy. I barely held back tears and refused to look at the bright side. Apple bobbing is infinitely easier with a ponytail! 


My mom took the drama personally. The 50's were her formative years, wholesome and well-groomed. Now her very own daughter yearned to tease every hair on her head and slut it up a bit. I still harbor guilt, though clearly Mtv was to blame.

Behold my mom in all her 50's glory! You can almost hear Hound Dog playing in the background.


Somehow, through the many decades, houses bought and sold, the packing and moving and storing of stuff, the poodle skirt stayed with me. Literally. So when Lu was trying to decide what to be for Halloween this (her fourth grade) year, I dug in the attic and emerged with a well-preserved skirt lovingly designed by a grandmother she never knew. 


Of course, I had to add my own creative touch – zombie makeup, a nod to the 50's themed Thriller video of my generation. Nostalgia wrapped in nostalgia. Lu loves the gory details and is blissfully oblivious to the full emotional circle her outfit completes.

Your question for the week. What was your most memorable costume?


Happy Halloween!

Is it Monday already?

Just a few weeks in and I'm making excuses. 


My goal from the start was to create a post every Friday. Not because I think you are desperately waiting for my next update, but because I work best with a schedule. It's not unlike clean sheet Thursday. Forget the moon cycles, you could keep an accurate calendar by the scent of fresh pillowcases wafting out our windows.


But what a busy, crazy week I had. Jon's been away on a project and wrangling three children alone is both physically and mentally exhausting. I try to remain chipper and remember how fortunate I am to be home (all the time, some would say tethered) watching them grow, providing for their every need, nurturing, loving, fighting the urge to drop it all and flee with only my wallet and a loose plan. The sad truth is debit cards are traceable.


On top of the regular routine last week, I ran a race on Sunday and could barely walk for several days. Then Bunsen had a stomach issue and needed to go out many times throughout the night. Add in clubs and sports and Daisies and class projects all happening at once. And laundry. Lots of ongoing, perpetuating laundry.


Then the (cute) thread that weaves its way throughout my every day just tied the tangles tighter. I put books on a shelf, she takes them off. I clean the floor, she tosses mashed bananas. I open the pantry for a snack and disaster ensues.

(It's funny how limp and inadequate my excuses sound in writing. I'll continue anyway.)


Jon finally came home on Thursday night – tag out! – but instead of tackling that overflowing laundry basket or engaging me in my first mature conversation in forever, he spends over an hour on the phone with a bank representative fighting a $12 fee applied to Lu's account. It was a mistake and needed to be fixed, but oh my Lord, that poor soul on the other line. Jon connected the entire banking crisis to our 9 year-old's meager savings. For the record, I would have assumed it was valid, paid the fee, and advised Lu to walk more dogs. 


Then Friday came and Friday went. And the weekend was its usual blur.


Now it's Monday morning and I'm finally posting. I know your sense of relief and joy are overwhelming. 


My question for you: If you could drop it all and get away for a long weekend by yourself, where would you go and what would you do?


I'm thinking most people will share my opinion. Tropical island, spa and an iPad. More specifically, I want access to big tubs of mud or something warm and therapeutic in which to soak.


But maybe you'd rather hike a remote trail, shop in Paris, or meditate at an isolated ashram. I'll take any option above. Just promise that the laundry will be folded before I return.

Happy 13th birthday to my firstborn!

As of today, we have a teenager in the house. But so far she's not talking back or testing boundaries. Probably because she has an electric zappy collar and is just a dog. Though just seems very unjust.


I grew up with dogs. My first dog, Barko, was hit and killed by a car right after we moved to a new (old) house on a busy road. One of my most vivid early memories is of my father cradling him post accident. Awful. Dusty came when I was in third grade. She shed a lot, barked a ton and would eat entire raw chickens left to thaw on the kitchen counter. 


Into adulthood, I knew I wanted/needed/craved the love of a dog. But being married to a very practical, realistic man, we waited until we bought a house with a yard and had reasonable schedules. Once that checklist was complete (and squeaky toys were acquired) we drove to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and picked a puppy from a litter of 11 yellow labs bred to work. Bunsen wasn't the runt, but she was a very close runner-up. No hunter was interested in her 4 lbs. of fluff. I was.

Getting Bunsen marked the official beginning of my very own family. I had a rough many years after my mother died feeling unwelcome and unaccepted among the people I depended on, so it was immensely satisfying to finally have a house to call home and a life for which I was responsible. I had control. And I wasn't going to screw it up.


What I quickly learned is that you can't control much of anything when it comes to another soul – person or pet. Is there a better preparatory lesson for having children someday?


Bunsen was never a happy-go-lucky, dopey dog that people automatically adore. She is suspicious and fickle. She is tentative and anxious. But she is also 100% docile. There is not an ounce of aggression from cold nose to (nervously) wagging tail. 


Bunsen has many, many quirks. She hates the wind or sudden shifts in barometric pressure. She doesn't like cars and will pant heavily for the duration of any ride, around the block or across the country. She stretches when she's self-consious. I have never been able to conduct a thorough tick check or get her to sit with the girls for a picture. No way. She knows when something's up. A chirping smoke detector, my niece's text alert or the dreaded "Biggest Loser" beeping scale will cause hours of uncontrollable shaking.

Bunsen was once a total spaz, I mean energetic dog. She ran around like a maniac, jumped on people without warning, and could not get the hang of a leash. 


Now she is rickety. She has trouble with stairs and can no longer leap with ease onto our bed at two in the morning. She'll whine by my ear until I get up and give her a boost, fully realizing that her crazy dreams and terrible gas will prevent me from falling back to sleep. Last night, I put a pillow (Jon's) by her bum to diffuse or at least deflect the toxicity. It will burn your throat.


The past thirteen years in our lives were momentous. We settled into marriage, had kids, moved, changed jobs, suffered loss, found joy, grew, aged. 


Bunsen has been a soothing constant through it all. She still expects to be let out and back in about 100 times each day. She still gets a treat for doing pretty much anything. She still lets me kiss her a lot, wrap her in blankets like a "Bun-chilada," and doesn't seem fazed by the baby's relentless idol worship – of her food bowls mostly – or Lu and Edy's sporadic appreciation. Edy made her a birthday card before breakfast this morning.

Considering her fear of extreme weather, I don't know that Bunsen would protect us with a tornado approaching. But she does seem genuinely thrilled to see me when I return from a quick errand and stares at me with a kind of knowing that is on a different, better level than human. Or maybe it's her cataracts?

Steady, predictably strange, submissively sweet Bunsen. Happy birthday to you! (And to Joby and Lourdes Leon, too.)


Your question this week: What animal has had the biggest impact on your life? I don't say pets because if you never had pets, maybe it's Lassie or the bunnies that eat your garden every summer.

The idea for this post came to me in the shower.

Honestly, it did. You see, I could not wait to use the exciting shampoo I bought at Sephora. Such a thrill to try new things! So fancy, because I'm worth it. I admit, it was the bottle's cool design that made me swoon. It feels like aluminum, but is definitely not aluminum, and the graphics are science-y looking. Surely it was concocted in a lab with polymers and what not and my hair will never be the same.


Total disappointment followed. The watery goop that poured from the beautiful bottle didn't produce any lather. None. There it sat like Elmer's on my scalp. I even rechecked the label to make sure it wasn't conditioner. Nope. Shampooing restructurant, it read, meaning restructuring shampoo for those of you who aren't 1/40th French like me. Seeing no other option (all naked and vulnerable), I mixed it with Jon's Suave which bubbles like crazy and was likely procured using doubled coupons and a mail-in rebate. By Jon. Because we are opposites in every way.


This may come as a surprise, but I don't typically splurge on beauty products. My make-up routine is basic and boring and I don't replace any of it until I see a news story on how bacteria growth in blush will cause permanent paralysis. And I'm not easily persuaded by slick marketing. I spent many years in the industry so whenever I see an ad, even the best and most clever, I imagine a team of "creatives" pitching the concept and I'm instantly unimpressed.


But that damn bottle. It got me. It called me over with just a look, then it won me over with its space-age feel. All is not lost, however, the faux metal feels good on Beazy's sore gums.

Product packaging. Marketing. Advertising. Sometimes it works. Many times it's terrible. But terribly memorable is a good thing, right? Because memorable is the ultimate goal. My head is spinning. 


There are two current TV ads that make me cringe and giggle. Then cringe some more.


First I offer up Febreeze Air Effects. Unsuspecting people (I imagine friendly tourists) are grabbed off the city street, blindfolded, and led into a kitchen strewn with rotting meat parts or a filthy apartment containing perhaps a body under the bed. When they confess that it smells lovely, like lavender, and then remove the blindfold to reveal the horrifying scene, it doesn't persuade me to buy Febreeze for my own mounds of rancid flesh. Rather, it causes me to panic for the mental health and safety of everyone involved. Including the person possibly under the bed.


Then there's Activia! You know you can't just say it, you need to sing it! I like this commercial because I know Activia got in tons of trouble for making claims about digestion and weight loss that it couldn't support. So the new ads are super silly in their careful wording. Some doctor/scientist/smart guy (who probably crafted my crappy shampoo) points to charts and explains rather boldly how Activia speeds up "intestinal transit." It helps you poop! Oh yes it does! Fiber will do that.


Which brings me to your question for the week. What is your favorite current advertising campaign (good or bad) and why is it so memorable? It's a light topic, but will be fun to reflect upon many years from now. 


A little pop culture for your paper trail.